


Lying is such a Weakness

by dabblingDilettante



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Gen, Trans, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabblingDilettante/pseuds/dabblingDilettante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chihiro Fujisaki is a liar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying is such a Weakness

At 11 years old, you dropped out of school. You figured you got enough from home in regards to education, and no one said anything about it. Your dad fixed everything for you, without ever saying a word, and walked away. You finally got to do what you wanted. Sit at a computer, all day, nary a thought but programming and a reminder on the side of your screen telling you to eat.

No longer having to be mocked about your appearance. About your hair, about the little bit of blush you applied every morning without thinking, about the flowers you’d place into your hair while in the school courtyard. It was allowed within the first few months of your mother’s death. They said you were grieving, you wanted an attachment, she must have done that before she died, she must have said it was okay for you to do that around the house.

Sometimes you’d laugh at them for that and get kicked in the face.

Other times you’d have nightmares about how strict she was, and wake up screaming.

At 12, you’ve managed to impress even your father. You’ve been able to open a site that brings you revenue, to the point that if you ever go out to eat together every month or two, you ask to be the one to pay. You start to buy clothing of your own, making sure that it always arrives when your father will not be home, carefully pad the front of your closet with old school uniforms and ratty t-shirts, and the back with skirts and blouses and short socks with bits of lace at the top. 

You swallow and tell yourself that it’s just because you think they all look nice. That you think they have a nice feel. You say you just wear them because they make you feel like you have a loving family. You tell yourself all sorts of things, and hope that maybe one day you can believe it.

You research on the internet about how to tuck properly, shaking so hard that your chair protests and breaks after five long years of usefulness. When you fall, you laugh and rub the tears away from your face.

You avoid looking in the mirror so you don’t see the reminder your father left you, telling you to cut your hair.

When you are 13, someone sends a message asking if you are a boy or a girl.

Your throat catches, in a feeling you don’t quite understand. Anger? You’re not sure. Something about it makes you enraged. Why did you have to be either? Why not both. Why not neither. Why ask the question at all. You sit there for an hour, panicking, trying to eat, spitting out everything because it tastes bitter and acidic. You feel a lot sicker than you have in a long time.

You finally pull up the message, still unsure about what to say, considering saying you don’t want to tell because you’re scared of stalkers, when your fingers succinctly type, “I’m a girl.” Only a moment before you process what you’ve written, those same fingers hit tab and enter.

Your heart races as your internet sends it out, screaming in your head, hoping that the entire network will shut down and explode and destroy any trace of that message, all of your work, your entire existence.

When it finally pops up with a single ‘Sent!’

Your hands fall back, limp.

Your heart beats and you’re sweating and you remember that you forgot to shave your underarms because your dad had been over the day before and you had hidden the razor and you strangely don’t feel that sick.

You are shocked, but you finally close your eyes and feel alright.

“It must be because I’m weak,” you whisper.

Yeah. Right.

That’s the only reason you’d be okay with that.

You’d have to be the weakest person in the universe to lie like that.

Three years later, you’re standing at the door step of your house, about to leave to go to school for the first time in three years.

You crumple the note your father left, telling you to cut your hair already, make sure you pick up the uniforms you ordered, telling them to correct the name they’d left on the post card. You smile and shove it in your pocket.

“There’s time for being a man when I’m older.”

“I can be weak for now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from Tumblr, just to have it in an easy to find place for myself.


End file.
